


The Wiry Librarian

by cosmickirk



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Mendel is a nervous wreck, Trina is a goddess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickirk/pseuds/cosmickirk
Summary: "'Do you know where the poetry section is?''Uh, yeah,' Mendel says absently, and finally lifts his head. This is a mistake, because he almost chokes when he sees what's in front of him."





	The Wiry Librarian

Mendel doesn't hate his job. He doesn't. It makes tuition payments slightly more manageable, and he prefers the quiet of the library to the racket that permeates all other aspects of his life.

It's just that sometimes, the place is _so_  quiet he wants to blow his goddamned brains out. 

The idea of shooting himself here is funny to him, because Irene, the indifferent head librarian who Mendel is convinced hates him, would probably just shush him in response.

And then there's the repetitiveness. The swipe of barcodes, the pleasant but unstimulating exchanges, the kids who try to weasel their way out of late fines. But, again: Mendel does _not_  hate his job.

He's in something of a psychology kick these days, the few classes he's taken on the subject having stirred something passionate in him. So, Wednesday evening finds him flipping half-attentively through _Psychology Today_ as the library crowd swells and thins but mostly thins, the quiet hum of the place almost numbing. He leans against the checkout counter, twirling the cord of the handheld scanner around his finger. An article about the importance of sleep in the consolidation of short-term memory makes him feel personally targeted, since he averages about four hours per night and compensates with coffee, which the article points out damages your ability to produce melatonin.

The slow night is punctuated only by a little kid renewing his library card and an elderly lady looking for Julia Child's _The Joy of Cooking._

He's moved on to an article about patterns of anti-social behaviour in children and wondering exactly how many of his life choices are destroying his brain when a feminine voice pulls him out of his focus. He sighs, as is his custom.

"Hi! Sorry," the voice is perky and melodic. "Do you know where the poetry section is?"

"Uh, yeah," Mendel says absently, and finally lifts his head. This is a mistake, because he almost chokes when he sees what's in front of him.

A girl. Beautiful in a way that to most is subtle but to Mendel is as obvious as the sun in the sky, or the itch of his woolen sweaters. Chestnut hair curling around a perfect, heart-shaped face. Warm, brown eyes that narrow expectantly as Mendel lets his stunned silence stretch longer and longer. He recovers with a start. "Uh, yeah, yeah, yeah," his voice is suddenly involved, and too quick. "It's kind of towards the back, on the left?" He gestures to illustrate his point. The girl follows with her eyes, and nods. "Our poetry stacks start at around 810."

He doesn't know if the girl is familiar with the dewey decimal system but she smiles with her softly pink, cupid-bow lips, and Mendel thinks he could die right there.

"Why, thank you..." she pauses. "Mendel."

"Huh?" His dark eyebrows furrow with confusion and (he'll admit) flattery. "How did you...?" But then the girl is pointing to his chest, where a small name tag hangs from his sweater. 

"Oh!" he exclaims, looking down at the tag as if it had just appeared. As if he was surprised by his own name. "Right." He laughs, too loudly, and the girl raises a brow as Mendel feels a blush colour his neck, making his sweater feel suddenly tight. 

She nods, polite. "Right."

And with that, she's off, hips swaying slightly in a floral skirt tucked under a thick knit cardigan. Mendel watches her journey down the stacks until she turns left at the poetry aisle and disappears into the books.

He continues his article, scanning more than reading now, the subject suddenly dull.

When the girl comes back, nearly twenty minutes later, he snaps to attention.

"Find everything you were looking for?" He asks cheerily, trying to still the trembling in his hands as he scans her books, collections by Edna St. Vincent Millay and Toni Morrison and Emily Dickinson. He notices that she picked no male poets, but he doesn't bring it up.

"No, actually," her cupid-bow mouth twists. "There's this collection by Audre Lorde that I wanted --"

"Oh!" Mendel is thrilled by the opportunity to help her. "Well, I can call another branch and have it sent over here for you."

A blush rises to her cheeks, which confuses Mendel. "No, no, no! I don't wanna be an inconvenience. I can just buy it, or, you know, whatever." She dismisses the offer with a flick of her wrist.

"It's really no trouble --"

"It's fine," she says firmly.

"Alright well," he shrugs, relenting. "If you're sure."

He slides her books across the counter and smiles, hoping she doesn't notice him jump when their fingers brush, or the sweat breaking out across his forehead. 

"Thank you for all your help," she smiles back at him and Mendel notices her perfectly straight teeth, the tiniest spot of lipstick staining one of them pink.

"Have a good one," he winks at her, a weak attempt at flirtation that he immediately regrets.

 _Oh, shit. R_ _eally, Mendel, you're gonna be_ that _guy?_

She doesn't seem to notice, however, just bows her head graciously and floats out of the library on a glowing cloud of beauty and charm.

Or maybe Mendel is embellishing. A little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll level with you guys like 90% of the reason I'm writing this is bc the image of mendel as a frazzled librarian 1) warms my heart and 2) is not that far off from canon mendel lmfao
> 
> viva la trindel


End file.
